


find you

by smallhorizons



Series: Tumblr Prompts [4]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Bucky Angst, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, M/M, Pre-Slash, Steve Rogers Angst, also, but can be read as gen except for one line, well it's a promise of a happy ending, well really it's
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-06
Updated: 2014-05-06
Packaged: 2018-01-23 20:05:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1577816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smallhorizons/pseuds/smallhorizons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ficlet written for a prompt on Tumblr.</p><p>They follow the Winter Soldier's trail across the continental US, into Europe, beyond. Steve doesn't realize that all he needs to do is stand still long enough for Bucky to come to him</p>
            </blockquote>





	find you

They look for months, follow the hazy trail of a man more ghost and machine than human, track rumors and blurred photographs across the continental US, across the ocean into France, Germany, into Russia, beyond. Steve brings a sketchbook with him, stuffed into his backpack along with a few changes of clothes; Sam asks him, once, what he’s drawing, but Steve just shrugs and hunches his shoulders. He’s capturing the curve of a long-lost smile, eyes that had crinkled at the corners, hands that had taught him how to throw punches. He draws a metal arm gleaming under the harsh winter sun, draws the muzzle strapped across his face, the blackened eyes dead and empty above. He draws until his hands cramp, and he keeps drawing, all across the US, into Europe, until six months have passed and the trail goes stone-cold somewhere in Chile.

Sam says, “You gotta know, man, I’m with you a hundred percent, but - we’ve got nothing. Might be better to regroup, get some rest.”

"Yeah," Steve says. "Yeah, that might be a good idea." He doesn’t say that he doesn’t know how to rest when his best friend has been broken down and then reshaped into a weapon, doesn’t know how to rest without thinking of the cold that stole him, that stole Bucky, doesn’t know how to rest without thinking, How the hell could I have let that happen to him?

Sam offers to let Steve stay with him until he finds a more permanent place to live, now that his apartment has been compromised. Steve accepts, puts his meager belongings in the small guest room that overlooks the backyard while Sam goes out to buy groceries, because his fridge and his cabinets are empty. There’s a desk, just large enough for Steve to spread out his sketchbook and his pencils. He’s used up every page in the book except for one. He sits and picks up a pencil and can only stare at the page until he realizes he’s crying, silent, fat tears wetting his cheeks, salting the crease of his mouth. “Damnit,” he says, voice hoarse, cracking. “Damnit.”

He fits himself into the shower, takes his clothes off without caring where they land on the floor, turns the water as cold as it can get. It’s cramped, frigid, and the claustrophobia creeps at the back of Steve’s neck, but Steve remembers the picture in the Winter Soldier’s file, remembers the lax expression frosted over with ice, and Steve stands in the cold and the wet and thinks, How could I let that happen to my best guy?

Afterward, he rubs himself dry, movements brisk. He redresses in his discarded clothes and looks at himself in the mirror and takes a deep breath.

When he gets back to his room, there is a ghost sitting at his desk.

He stops. Stares. Says nothing, and the ghost says nothing. He’s looking at Steve’s sketchbook, metal hand resting, almost delicately, on the paper.

"This is me," Bucky - the Soldier - says, minutes, hours later. "All of this." He looks up, just for a second. Just long enough for Steve to see the deep shadows beneath his eyes, the untamed beard on his face. His hair is long, lank, greasy. He’s wearing a black hoodie that drowns him in fabric, ragged jeans, dirty boots.

"Yeah," Steve says. "That’s - it’s all you."

Bucky’s brow furrows. He’s looking at a sketch Steve made a few weeks ago; the easy, graceful curve of Bucky’s body with his rifle slung over his shoulder. His face is empty of detail. “We were friends,” he says.

Steve chokes on his next breath. “Yeah, Buck,” he manages, trembling. “Yeah, buddy, we were friends. Best friends.”

Bucky makes a soft noise in the back of his throat. “You’ve been following me,” he says. “You and the other. Sam. Why?”

Steve takes a step into the room. Bucky coils into himself, as if about to spring. “Hey,” Steve says. “It’s okay. I just wanted you home, Buck. Just needed to make sure you were okay.”

Bucky looks at him, eyes dark, expressionless. His mouth used to be so prone to smiles - now it sits in a thin line. “Am I?” he asks. “Okay?”

Steve breathes out, long and slow. “Not yet,” he says, quiet. “But you will be. I promise.” Buck says nothing. “You will be,” Steve repeats. “I promise. You trust me, don’t you?”

Bucky’s voice is very, very small. “Of course.”

Steve smiles, strained. His lips are salty with tears. “Good,” he says. “Good.”

He takes another step.


End file.
